


at once

by blindbatalex



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 125592 words i have on this website, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, M/M, and this is the strangest thing i have written, and yet here we are, go figure, patrice breaks the world record for how much you can project onto a t-shirt, see that is not a tag i ever thought id type
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 22:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: Brad decides to throw out an old favorite t-shirt because it's outlived its use and grown very scratchy. Patrice has many feelings about this.





	at once

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beanmused](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanmused/gifts).



> I SWEAR I was going for light birthday fluff but I love you friend today and ever <3
> 
> Song inspiration || [Beirut - At Once](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcvhyHPPdU0)

Patrice watches as Brad throws together his road trip suitcase in record speed, as he always does. In go the boxers, there go socks chucked from all the way over the drawers and then in goes Wilson in an attempt Patrice can relate to sabotage the whole thing and stop Brad from leaving. Patrice picks him up with his good arm, tells him daddy is going to be back before they know it with a chuckle, and gets a tut from Brad for exerting his shoulder.

“It’s my good shoulder,” Patrice says, respectfully and without pouting, as he puts Wilson down on the bed.

“Can’t hurt to be careful,” Brad replies as he folds his suits into the suitcase this time with marginally more care.

He gets up and leans in for a kiss as if to apologize - quick like every other part of packing - before he pets Wilson on the head and bends down again to close the suitcase.

In his haste Brad has forgotten a key item however, something he never travels without. It’s a good thing Patrice is in the room with him.

“Not taking this?” he asks, holding up Brad’s favorite t-shirt. It’s a simple gray t-shirt with black cuffs and a large black spoked B in the middle, past its heyday and saggy now after years of use. But there is still some charm to it and Brad loves it still, for some unknown reason; he looks at it as if it was the best t-shirt in all of creation, has at times ran laundry just to put it back in circulation again. 

The memories bring a smile of his own to Patrice’s lips, despite his downbeat mood. Some things change with years: he doesn’t know what the future holds, for how long he can keep going, but it’s good to know that some things never do.

Except.

Brad looks up. “Oh yeah,” he says, without emotion and without stopping, “feel free to toss that in the trash.”

Patrice looks at him, offended on the garment’s behalf.

“But babe, it’s your favorite shirt?”

Brad takes it when he is done closing the suitcase, smiles. “It had its day,” he says with something like nostalgia, “but it’s gone old and scratchy and you know I can’t sleep in scratchy.”

With that, and with another kiss he is gone, leaving Patrice clutching the discarded item in his arms.

*

_It's quiet at night. The summer is in full swing and the only sound that cuts through the night is the chirping of the crickets. Fireflies light up his backyard, tiny dots of light that twinkle, and among them Patrice searches for solace, for some peace._

_“Hey,” Brad says and startles Patrice who hasn't heard him come out to the porch. He is bare feet, wearing shorts and a new, gray Bruins t-shirt that all but hugs his form, the spoked B over his chest prominent even in the low light. His hair falls over his forehead and into his beautiful eyes, tired now at 2am._

_“You should be sleeping,” Patrice says and when Brad gives him a pot-black-kettle-black look qualifies it with “you have a flight tomorrow.”_

_Brad takes a seat next to him on the porch-swing, almost close enough for their legs to touch._

_“About that-” he starts, stops, looks away. “They really thought we were dating huh.”_

_They really did. It’s exactly why Patrice is sitting here in the middle of the night, hours after the fact, trying to clear his head. He invited Brad to a friend's wedding as his plus one because the summer is long and he missed his friend. Not that anyone thought of it that way- the guests, his friends, family even, assumed they were dating, weren’t even surprised. They asked about how the weather was in Boston and how long they have been together and the worst even the most invasive of his relatives did was to ask whether it was difficult, you know,_ given _._

_Patrice had shut down that avenue of thought long time ago. He had talked to himself about responsibility and sacrifice and limits, and he let opportunities pass him by one by one, reined in the yearnings of his heart. And here in an outdoors reception in Quebec, with Brad in a tux by his side, correcting yet another aunt that no they don’t live together-_

_Brad touches his arm, pulls him to the present once more. His smile is just on this side of shy. “Tell me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper “tell me that I shouldn’t,” like he desperately wants to be convinced and desperately wants to be proven wrong before he leans in and finds Patrice’s lips with his._

_Patrice remembers later how fast Brad’s heart beat against the palm of his hand, under the proud spoked B of his t-shirt, how fast his beat in his ears, years of separation and sensibility melting away between them like snow under the April sun._

*

He leaves the t-shirt in the room as he goes along his evening, which mostly consists of snuggling with Wilson and watching TV now that Brad is gone and he is under strict orders not to exercise. 

The garment stares at him, forlorn and crumpled, when he comes back. Patrice tosses it over the drawers and slides under the covers. His shoulder aches and so does the rest of his body. Where he was young and nimble once, his body creaks these days, one too many injury he played through knocking on the door for revenge even as he keeps pushing on.

In the light of the night lamp he can just make out the t-shirt hanging onto the side of the drawers by the edge. There is a hole near the left armpit where the fabric has eroded after one too many wash.

When he picks it up it smells like Brad too, a hint of his cologne and a hint of sweat.

But Brad is right; it is too scratchy when he puts it on, past use regardless of how much sentiment would like to claim otherwise.

If they had been more careful over the years, he thinks as he folds it away, if they used softener and listened to wash instructions and didn’t push the thing beyond its limit. If. 

*

_Patrice gives the contents of the drawer containing Brad’s t-shirts a forlorn look. Brad’s cleaning lady quit two weeks ago and between the season and then dealing with Brad’s suspension they really let laundry go. To the point there is a single clean sleep t-shirt remaining in the drawer now and as luck would have it it’s that damn gray Bruins shirt, the absence of which Brad would notice even if he was showered with a mountain of t-shirts._

_See the thing is Patrice might have a bit of a thing for wearing Brad’s clothes. He likes how they are always one size too small for him, likes imagining them fitting Brad perfectly. Where they have wear and tear or small stains he likes to imagine how they got there. And beyond it all, he feels at home in Brad’s clothes in a way he can’t quite put to words, like he_ belongs _._

_None of which he told Brad of course, because you don’t do that in a two-month old relationship, which is a problem because he is also leaving for a week long road trip._

_Maybe, he reasons, Brad wouldn’t notice it after all, or believe it to be in one of the many piles of clothes someone needs to sort through._

_Maybe, this is a choice between being a good person and being a person who gets to sleep in Brad’s clothes after all._

_“What are you doing, babe?”_

_Patrice nearly jumps out of his own skin. Brad needs to stop being so sneaky or Patrice needs to stop being so oblivious or maybe both. He can already feel the tips of his ears burning at being caught red handed and that’s before-_

_It’s before Brad comes over to where he is standing and says “deciding which of my t-shirts to steal are you?”_

_Patrice looks at him as if stricken, a deer caught in headlights. His mind whirs and whirs to come up with a plausible explanation but he draws a blank, fully aware that with each second his credibility is eroding away._

_“Oh come on,” Brad laughs, “you were_ not _subtle.”_

_Then because he must have noticed the state of Patrice he puts a hand on his arm, tells him- “Bergy, it’s okay. I think it’s cute. You are fine.”_

_Patrice breathes at that, although half of his face is still on fire._

_“Here.” Brad says, picking up the sole occupant of the drawer. “Take this.”_

_Patrice looks between him and the t-shirt, hesitates._

_“You sure?” he asks. “I know it’s your favorite.”_

_“Yeah.” Brad smiles, open, fond, and Patrice loves him in that moment. His eyes turn dark as he adds-_

_“Besides, I can get off here knowing that you are mine whether you are in DC or Philly.”_

_“I am yours,” Patrice tells him, though he won’t recall later for the life of him whether he said that out loud or not. He could ask Brad of course but he has no doubt Brad will claim he shouted it from the mountain tops for the world to hear._

*

And why shouldn’t Brad get a newer better t-shirt, Patrice thinks the next morning as he makes breakfast for one. Regardless of what he gets into that thick head of his sometimes, Brad only deserves the very best. He deserves a t-shirt that will match his energy, something newer and better that he will lay his eyes on and come to love just as much as he loved this sad old thing back in its day.

Patrice could even help him look for one, make sure the new t-shirt was up to snuff, only what would make Brad feel the best.

His heart aches at the thought, even though he would; he would do anything to make sure Brad was happy.

*

_Brad comes to hug him from the behind just as Patrice is about to transfer the pancake batter from the bowl to the skillet. It’s a perfectly ordinary Sunday morning. They have the day off and light rain is pattering against the windows, washing the kitchen in soft-gray light._

_People know that Brad is an affectionate guy but they don’t how full his hugs are. They don’t know how he makes his body fit around yours until you are enveloped with warmth on all sides and the world makes sense if only for those precious few seconds._

_Patrice doesn’t want them to know either, not really._

_He drinks the sensation in for a moment, the solid weight of Brad’s head resting against the nape of his neck, his arms around his middle, before he makes to move towards the stove that’s already on, feeling even better after the hug. It’s his mistake however to assume moving would end the hug as Brad opts to simply move with him, head still resting on between Patrice’s shoulder blades and all._

_“Ange,” Patrice says with a soft chuckle at his boyfriend who seems to have turned into a human sized koala, “I am trying to make us food.”_

_Brad hums. Patrice can feel his vocal cords vibrate against his skin._

_“If you want me to give up your warmth and go,” Brad says very seriously after a minute like he has come to a decision. “You will have to bribe me.”_

_“Is that so?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And what do you demand for my freedom?”_

_Brad waits for a beat, just to be dramatic._

_“Kisses,” he says then, “many many kisses.”_

_Patrice turns around at that, on paper to ask him how that even counts as letting him work, but really because he’s more than willing to be extorted if that’s the demand._

_Brad smiles at him. He looks gorgeous with his hair mussed up from sleep, the mark of the pillow he slept again still fading on his cheek. He is wearing his favorite t-shirt - a gray Bruins t-shirt that was form fitting once - and you would think it has ridden up on accident to reveal a patch of skin above Brad’s waistband, except Patrice knows his boyfriend too well to know he 100% pulled that t-shirt up himself because the bastard knows how to lure in Patrice like the back of his hand._

_“You bastard,” he says and when Brad positively preens, in that moment when he grins at Patrice eyes still soft with sleep, Patrice knows._

_That’s the moment Patrice knows, in his kitchen on a perfectly ordinary Sunday, that he wants to spend the rest of his life with Brad, without the shadow of a doubt, with every cell in his body._

*

They win in the evening, Patrice’s absence in the center barely even noticeable. He watches and cheers as Pasta goes zooming into Brad’s open arms after Brad sets him up for the game winning goal.

There is a future to this team and it’s in good hands and into the trash the t-shirt goes, like everything that once had a purpose and served it to its conclusion.

 

***

 

Brad finds Pat more than half-asleep on the couch when he gets back home. He is half asleep himself with the game and the travel so that makes the two of them.

“I threw out the t-shirt,” Patrice says through half open eyes in greeting, eyes that are so very sad even though he is hiding it under a smile. “You were great out there.”

Brad offers him a hand up. “Not the same without you though,” he says, because it’s true.

Patrice thanks him as if it was a kindness he offered rather than, you know, the absolute truth. 

Brad for his part thanks the foresight that led him to asking for a flight back directly after the game rather than waiting until the morning to return with the rest of the guys. When he is injured Patrice is fine as soon as he can hit the gym, as soon as he has a timeline, because it gives him something to fight for. But tell him to stay at home and sit on his hands in the middle of the season, and the man spirals, as seems to be the case right now from the looks of things. As Brad intends to fix first thing in the morning, once he has gotten some sleep.

“It was old,” Patrice says as they walk upstairs, “you were right to want to throw it out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your Bruins t-shirt. The gray and black one. It used to be your favorite but it grew old and scratchy and I threw it out.” 

It takes Brad a moment to realize what Patrice is talking about and then another to realize what he is _really_ talking about, at which point he stops them both at the door of their bedroom.

“Pat.”

Patrice looks at him with the solemn resignation of one who has accepted his fate.

“Yes.”

Brad wants to kill him. 

Here is the man he loves to moon and back, left to his own devices for one day, and convinced that he is kin with a fucking t-shirt.

“You realize you are not a t-shirt right?”

Patrice laughs at that. “What? Of course not,” he replies, convincing no one.

“You realize, right,” Brad continues, and he really will kill Patrice, “that I intend to keep on loving you until you are properly old and saggy and useless and not just laid out for a few weeks with injury?” 

Patrice smiles past a frown, tells Brad he knows that, of course he knows that. 

“You realize,” Brad continues, because he isn’t sure that Patrice does, “that if you actually turned into the most scratchy, sagged, ugly t-shirt in creation, if you turned into a Ryan Callahan shirsey, I would still never throw you out? Fuck, Bergy.”

And this time Patrice laughs for real, the relief in his voice impossible to miss.

“Just so you know there is no one I’d rather spend my life with either,” he tells Brad when they have gone to bed and turned off the lights, complete with a kiss on his temple.

Later, they will think back to that moment as the first time they seriously discussed marriage, half asleep at 2am, over a broken t-shirt but for now they lie tangled in each other sleep fast making its claim on the both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> When I say this is the strangest thing I wrote fyi note that I once wrote a [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10901316) where one character thought they were talking about whether chips went better with gravy or curry sauce and the other thought it was a love confession. Regardless, comments are what keep me coming back to write more and are always appreciated.
> 
> I'm also on tumblr [@blindbatalex](https://blindbatalex.tumblr.com/) and need friends.


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